Queen of Rohan
by Hellsig Otoupeim
Summary: Dreams die. The woman you are now is not the girl you were; and the laughter of your childhood seems unreachable. People die too. All that is left is to follow.


Queen of Rohan (all that is left is to follow)

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings, nor do I make profit from this.

.

Certain things, you think were never meant to last. (For all elves are immortal; even they were meant to fade.) It is a lonely thought in the dead of the night, but a thought you harbour nonetheless because its loneliness does nothing to deny its veracity. Certain things, like love and people and dreams, were never meant to last.

You had dreams too, once.

.

When you were a child (barely a girl, and yet already a Queen) you dreamt of sunshine and seagulls. You dreamt of endless summers spend kicking through foaming waves, and when the night came and sleep overtook you; you ran through the mist and giggled at the sand that stuck between pale toes. When you were a child, you dreamt of a summer that would never end. You wanted, for when you grew up, to smile and laugh each day as you kicked through the sand.

How dreams die.

.

As you became a girl, thirteen and primed for marriage, you dreamt of love. A handsome husband not too old to love and cherish you in showers of gold; or a quire to kiss you in dark alcoves and steal you from some old Harpagon. You dreamt of love, golden hued and soft; dreamt of kisses because you knew no more and dreamt of touches soft as a feather. As you became thirteen, you dreamt of jewels and riches and presents poured upon you as water in a river. You dreamt, and dreamt, and dreamt. You have neither the quire nor the young husband, but you find love regardless. It's not quite what you awaited; but you have learnt to be grateful for whatever you can have and these things make do. As you became thirteen, you dreamt of tales and now that you look back, with the years of patience that turned to respect, and respect that morphed into affection and the affection that became, perhaps, a little, love - you smile at the tiny little dreamer that you were.

You do not have the forbidden love nor the burning romance, but you do well without and you are a Queen anyway. Queens don't have either of these things. (They are reserved for Princesses, you see.)

.

The betrothal wasn't quite what you planned (Eomer of Rohan, a little above your status but you are a Daughter of Dol Amroth and born to be Queen, so you will make do with smiling at your husband to charm him) but betrothals are never quite as planned and in the absence of a mother, it is the maids who teach you what happens on a wedding night. You are scared and excited and a little nervous, but then you meet the King and all this flies out of the window.

Eomer of Rohan is twenty-eight, and to your fourteen years old self; it has never appeared that old.

.

At fifteen, married and wed and pregnant, you dreamt of freedom. (You dreamt of the summers in Dol Amroth and the soft taste of honey cakes. You dreamt of silken gowns in the fine evening air and gentle breezes ruffling your skirts. You dream of something that is kept for little girl, and at fifteen you desperately wish to be eight again; barely a woman and yet already a Queen.)

.

Elfwine (you do not even get to pick his name) is your son, and a part of you know that you must love him. You do, too. You love him. (But you are fifteen, and you are tired when he cries. He cries at night, cries during the day, cries to be fed and you are fifteen; not quite a mother and not quite a girl either.) Elfwine is your baby and your child and your treasure, but you find it hard to be a mother. (You resent, a little, that Eomer no longer touches you. He awakened a hunger within you that he has yet to sate, made you discover the world in which you were a woman and not in-transition; and you do not understand why Eomer no longer looks at you.) Well - you do.

You rage quietly when you are moved from his chambers. Elfwine is strong, bright eyes taking the world in already, and Rohan has no need for a second Prince. (Except that you wish, even if you cannot be a mother, that Elfwine should have at least a sibling to grow with. You love your brothers.) Eomer still sits with you atop the High Table, still speaks to you and smiles at you and allows you to replenish his cup of wine, but you no longer know than man who wedded you. You no longer know the King.

Horses whines outside, hooves snapping impatiently against the cold stone paving of Edoras. Your smile is cold and laughter forced, because there are no jewels and riches, not presents and no love and no golden hued happiness. You are too young to be a mother and already past being a wife and nothing, nothing quite makes up for the coldness of being a Queen.

Still. Since you cannot be a mother nor a wife nor a woman; you put all you are in being a Queen - you will be the best damn Queen Rohan has ever had.

.

You had dreams too, once. (Eomer's hands are cold. The halls of Meduseld are foreign, for all you rule over them.)

You think the six years old you would be very disappointed in the person you have become - and it saddens your sixteen years old self a little.

Thankfully, all this matters very little to Queen Lothìriel of Rohan.


End file.
